


Solstice Swap

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [6]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Dense Dismas, Gift Exchange, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Patient Alhazred, Self-Esteem Issues, Winter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: Dismas is admittedly the worst gift-giver in the Hamlet, so when he gets signed up for a gift-exchange against his will, he's rightfully panicked when he's assigned their local scholar, occultist, and all around gentleman, Alhazred.Luckily, the women of the Hamlet seem to know exactly how to help.
Relationships: Highwayman/Occultist (Darkest Dungeon)
Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057325
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Solstice Swap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darndungeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darndungeon/gifts).



> Shibs, you sold me on this. I am in shock since I am a diehard Reymas fan, but. DismAl is so addictive to write.

**Solstice Swap**

Dismas was irritated.

He hated holidays. He hated _all_ holidays, but most especially, he hated _this_ holiday.

The singing, the merriment, the _gifts_. He was admittedly terrible at the concept of gifts, whether giving or receiving, and avoided doing so entirely when he could. As a conman and a spinster, he could read people like the fine lines of a book, wheedle out their wants and needs with a honeyed tongue and sweetened words. Years later, however, as a simple highwayman among almost-friends, he was lost.

With a huff, he looked from the myriad of candles and beads perched upon the shelves of the wagon down to the paper in his gloved hands with Audrey’s perfectly elegant scrawl forming a single, neat word:

_'Alhazred'_

Helpless, he sneered at it. If it hadn't been sweet Junia who had come up with this gift-giving scheme, Dismas might have strangled her. He, like many of the more introverted people of the Hamlet, had tried to duck their way out of it entirely, but their loving, gentle, brick wall of a Vestal had all but twisted their arms with her lovely smile and veiled threats.

_It needs to be even, Dismas_ , she had said in that matronly way of hers that firmly kept him from slinking away. _You wouldn’t want someone left out just because you’re a grouch, would you?_

He would if he knew it had meant being stuck shopping for the town’s Occultist.

Dismas had spent the entirety of the past two days thinking about what he could get a self-proclaimed arbiter of Eldritch deities with minimal funds and effort. It’s not as if he didn’t _like_ Alhazred -- quite the contrary, actually -- but Dismas was at a loss of what he could offer a distinguished delegate of darkness in the mortal world that he didn’t already have. They had been spending more and more time lately during their off days in the athenaeum together, but that only further dissuaded the idea that Dismas could get the man anything he might want.

Looking back up to the Nomad in her wagon, her lush merlot lips pursed impatiently, her gold covered outfit glinting by the light of the fancy candelabra between them, Dismas just shrugged weakly. 

“Got anything for Void-possessed scholars?”

She raised a full eyebrow at him, as if to say, _‘really_?’, then turned back to her wares; when she spoke, her voice was thick with an accent. “That all depends on what you can afford.”

Which unfortunately wasn’t _much_ , but he wasn’t exactly going to tell her that just yet, instead waiting to see what his options were and whether or not he’d need to ‘borrow’ some funds from the Crusader -- who in reality probably owed Dismas _thousands_ , the thieving git. He watched the Nomad dig around in a small chest, withdrawing relic after relic, trinkets and baubles, until she turned back around and laid some seemingly expensive items on the table before him. 

“The first and most expensive item,” the woman flourished with a flick of her thin wrists, causing her bracelets and charms to jingle theatrically, and whipped a cloth from the first concealed lump. “A polished giant’s skull, said to imbue its holder with great strength.” Dismas wrinkled his nose at it, most likely a rude gesture if he thought to care, but he didn’t.

“Feh. I hate giants,” he muttered, peering at the misshapen skull with deep cracks to one side of it, large in brow but small in overall diameter. “Besides, I think he’s already got a skull or two handy, and doesn’t have much need for sheer strength.” 

The second item was just as strange as the first -- the Nomad removed the cloth to expose a bulbous steel bowl with a skeleton on it, and for a moment, Dismas couldn’t help but wonder why the Occultist seemed to have such an affinity for the macabre. Then he remembered what lurked within the older man’s soul, just on the brink of freedom and impulse, and shivered outwardly. 

Perhaps a decorative bowl wasn’t so bad an option.

“Behold,” the Nomad spoke with a smile that seemed creepier than she probably intended while surrounded with such disturbing trinkets. “A sacrificial cauldron. For a small penance, he could be imbued with a destructive power -- so long as he can manage the stress of the sacrifice.”

Dismas squinted at it, quite frankly not enjoying the sounds of that one bit; after facing the Hag more times than should be necessary, the cauldron was far too reminiscent of the witch and her stew for Dismas’ tastes. “He’s got enough stress to deal with. Next?”

The Nomad’s smile faltered to a frown and she sniffed at him impatiently, seeming to realize what a hard buy Dismas was -- that, or she had figured out he was broke, nearly. 

“ _Last,_ ” she emphasized the word. “Is a stick of evasion incense.” 

There were no over-the-top displays, no flutter of her jewelry or confident smirk on her face. The item was a common trinket, Dismas knew, and had seen Alhazred use incense sticks once or twice before an expedition, so he was confident the bauble would at least be familiar enough to the Occultist. What he did with it after that was his problem, Dismas mused as he pulled out his coin purse and divvied out the gold. 

“Pleasure doing business with ya,” Dismas smirked in victory.

Common or not, he was glad it was over and he wouldn’t have to think about how a man of such merits like Alhazred deserved something -- some _one_ \-- far better than what Dismas could offer for Solstice.

...

For the next week, the entire town was abuzz with excitement over the upcoming Solstice swap Junia had planned, even those initially reluctant to agree to it. Everyone seemed to have extravagant gifts of sorts, from the animated whispers he would overhear in the tavern, and it wasn’t hard to figure out who had been assigned who. 

William, risking injury and hypothermia, had Tardif and managed to get the Bounty Hunter a talon as a trophy of sorts after hunting down the Shrieker with his wolfhound -- which was impressive all on its own, really. Missandei had gotten Margaret a regal looking hat with a massive plume to match the Musketeer’s hair, which was thoughtful. And clearly expensive. Baldwin supposedly had treasures from his past life as royalty stashed away, held by the abbots as the final treasures of a king sent from the holy lands, and in it was a tambourine from his childhood gifted to Sarmenti.

It made Dismas sick. Not with them, necessarily, but with _himself._

Alhazred was…

Adept. At _everything_ he did, it seemed. He was calm and collected at the worst of times, charming and kind at the best. When Dismas was too irrational to set their nightly traps at camp, Alhazred kept them all safe in his stead, sacrificing his own seemingly endless sanity to commune with whatever entity watching over them.

When he wasn’t commanding a void being to his whim to slaughter or debuff his enemies, Alhazred was drawing adventurers back from the brink of death with his wyrd reconstruction. Absently, Dismas recalled the first time he had been dragged back from Death’s Door by those confident hands, remembered the way he had shockingly resurfaced from his quickly fading panic, the blinding pain that abated to that eerie nothingness as he thought his final goodbyes. 

Before he could even finish his ever-growing list of regrets, Dismas had felt that looming darkness vanish, replaced instead by a tan face and dark beard, those nearly black eyes blown wide with relief as he called Dismas’ name.

It was a moment played out in haunting dreams when the days were bad and the nights lonely.

Honestly, Dismas had been unsettled by the strange man at first, wanting nothing to do with the spectre scholar who saw ghosts and embraced them. He was a simple man with simple needs, and an Eldritch liaison was so far outside Dismas’ realm of what made sense, that it frequently left him speechless when Alhazred would bother talking to him. The other man was educated, cultured, _refined_. He was witty and charming, patient with the likes of the Highwayman, never once coming off as condescending despite their glaringly obvious differences. 

He was all of the things Dismas wasn’t and deserved a gift of equal calibre, despite Dismas knowing full well he could never come close to getting Alhazred what he deserved.

That’s what left him so frustrated. 

“Something amiss?” Paracelsus startled him with her typically snappish voice, harsh and critical when she was distracted with her research. Currently, she was hunched over something from the weald that was pinned to a board to keep from wriggling beneath her microscopic lense. "You've been sighing ever since you got here. It's rather pathetic."

"Charming as ever, Para," Dismas answered dryly, watching the way she flitted between the strange instrument and her notes.

"I try. Now out with it or leave."

Dismas sighed, frustrated with himself for being so preoccupied by this. Really, he wasn't sure why he even _cared_ what kind of gift he got for Alhazred's Solstice; the man literally had everything a semi-mortal being could ask for. But still, getting a man who had repeatedly saved his life, a man who frequently made time during his busy weeks to smoke with Dismas, who took his time and genuinely seemed to _enjoy_ educating Dismas on literally anything the thief asked him about -- it seemed in poor thanks to simply get Alhazred a common incense stick to show his growing appreciation for the Occultist. 

Irritable, thoughtless, Dismas twirled his knife in his hands for what little comfort it gave him and spoke, "I think I might have been a bit too tightfisted with my Solstice gift for Al. Everyone in the Hamlet seems excited to give their partner a gift, but -- " He cut himself off, realizing his faux pas too late. 

Paracelsus just smiled to herself while looking into the scope.

"Wait -- I," Dismas started, stopped, cursed himself. " _Dammit_ , I didn’t mean -- You weren't supposed to hear that."

She huffed a laugh at his frustration, which only exasperated him further, but finally scooted back from her strange experiment to wash her hands, taking her sweet time to clean her work space before eventually saying, “Your notorious big mouth strikes again, Dismas.”

“You can’t tell Al I’m his partner.” Again, Dismas wasn’t sure why this stupid gift exhange mattered to him when it never had before, all he knew was that he didn’t want Alhazred to know until -- until he had the chance to find a better gift.

“I would never take that honor from you.”

Para was sarcastic and wheelding more often than not, which Dismas could normally appreciate about the woman, but drove him mad at the moment; most likely, at least in this case, her word was genuine, but Dismas hated that he couldn’t be positive. “Good. Now tell me who yours is.”

As they spoke, the doctor pulled out yet another grisly experiment from a jar of what Dismas had -- mistakenly -- believed to be pickled meats. He really should have known better and held his breath as Para unscrewed the cap and said, “And why would I do that?”

“It’s only fair,” Dismas shrugged. “Consider it collateral for knowing who my Solstice recipient is.”

She gave a surprised laugh at that. “Collateral for _your_ blunder?”

The coercion had sounded better in his head, Dismas mused, and he tried not to watch as Paracelsus reached into the jar of fleshy parts with long tongs to extract something from within, wincing at the wet slapping noise it made when she laid in on the table. Vaguely, he wondered how she had fared with gifting her Solstice recipient when her arts were a bit more… _curative_ in nature than what most people wanted for the holidays.

“...Yes. Now come clean with it.” He knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on, but he hoped the Plague Doctor wasn’t taking this as seriously as, say, Audrey or Junia. Thankfully, she wasn’t.

"The Tin Man."

" _Tch_ ,” scoffed Dismas, propping himself up on a spare table and lazily swinging his legs back and forth from it. “'Course you get an _easy_ recipient! Rey's Solstice gift is a given every year."

"Indeed,” she said distractedly. “I already have the order for a new zweihander at the armory. That fool of a Crusader certainly goes through a lot of swords for a supposed _holy man_."

"No kidding…” The thought brought a fresh pang of guilt through his stomach, twisting him into knots as he considered what to do for Alhazred’s Solstice. With a man like Rey, who changed swords and armor with every passing week, seemed like, it wasn’t hard to appease him with replacement metal. But with a man of class and high expectations, there was no way for Dismas to know for sure what Alhazred could want. “I'm rethinking the trinket I got for Al. Maybe I should go back and get that cauldron after all…”

He said it more to himself, but Paracelsus still cocked her head at that, industrial lab goggles hiding her eyes. "What would Alhazred have need of a cauldron for?"

Dismas kept swinging his legs, kept fidgeting with his knife, kept sane in all the little ways he could manage as he agonized over his poor decision making skills. Damn him for getting involved, damn the Nomad for not having a glorious gift at the ready, and damn _Alhazred_ for being so bloody _perfect._ Well, he certainly didn’t mean the last part -- really, it wasn’t Al’s fault that Dismas was the worst gift-giver in history. To Paracelsus, he shrugged and said, "Beats me. The Nomad woman seemed to think it was useful, but it's hard to trust that grifter."

"So if you don't know enough about a cauldron’s use, then get him something you _are_ familiar with."

She said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, but Dismas just scoffed and rolled his eyes; the doctor should have known him better than that. "Unfortunately, Para, all a guy like me knows are guns, knives, and women. Are you suggesting I get him one of those?"

"I doubt Alhazred has much use for a gun or woman, but a _knife_ …" At that, she stood up straight, lifted her goggles, then held up the undulant blade she always kept on her person -- whether for combat, for medical practices, or for personal experimentation. " _Everyone_ has use for a good knife, Dismas. Even us scholarly sorts."

...

It wasn’t a _bad_ idea. 

Really, it was a far better idea than presenting Alhazred with a dingy stick of common incense, though that had set the bar embarrassingly low to begin with.

It wasn’t a great beast’s trophy of a body part like with Tardif’s gift, nor a luxuriously plumed hat or a king’s trove of precious tambourines, but a new knife was _surely_ better than measly incense. Unfortunately, it had meant Dismas trading in his own quality dirk for a simpler one to afford a newly made sacrificial dagger, since most of his spare coin normally went to whiskey and whoring. 

When he finally got the weapon, Dismas couldn’t help but marvel at it. It was long and curved at the tip, effective and potent, graceful and deadly, just like its soon-to-be wielder, and frankly Dismas was excited. Paracelsus had been right, this was the perfect gift for --

“ _So --_ ” Audrey stopped him the day after he received it, plush lips pulled in her normal harlequin smirk. “Did you get a Solstice present for Alhazred yet?” 

“ _Yes_.” Dismas was nearly offended. “And I thought we weren’t supposed to know each other’s giftees.” Which was a right lie, Dismas knew, since people in the Hamlet couldn’t seem to keep a secret to save their lives; he actually felt almost proud that he had only ratted himself out to one person so far in the week since Audrey and Junia began this headache. 

Just one more week to go.

“Darling,” sighed Audrey in that patronizing way of hers. “I _assigned_ the giftees, if you recall. Now what did you get him?”

Dismas hesitated, suddenly wary of being judged. “A knife.”

“'A knife',” she repeated. Dismas was already starting to regret telling the damn succubus anything based on her flat tone. “Do go on.”

“Uhm… A _nice_ knife,” Dismas grasped, then realized with a spike of irritation that, perhaps, _again,_ he didn’t think his gift through and mentally flailed for a sound explanation; this had seemed far more convincing of a present just a few days ago. “For when he has to, I don’t know, cut stuff for a ritual or something _._ ”

“Lordy me, you got Al a _knife_ ?” Audrey took a deep breath, as if scandalized, then said in that same breath, “That is to say, you got a man who commands the very Eldritch gods we're fighting to do his bidding and cripples enemies with a cursed skull at his disposal -- a _knife_?”

“...Yes.”

“By my boot, you don’t have a single romantic bone in your body, do you?” She might have sounded amused if she didn’t sound so strangely _impatient_ with him, which wasn’t unusual for Audrey and him, but Dismas wondered why she cared about his choice in presents for the town’s Occultist. 

At his confusion, he nearly missed a very odd choice of word.

“Wait, ' _romantic'?_ ” he all but sputtered. His brain seemed to short-wire at that, so Dismas focused on the far easier-bullshit-to-deal-with part of that sentence. “And for fuck’s sake, who _couldn’t_ use a knife here in the Hamlet? It’s sharp and tactical and handy if Al ever gets in a bind or leaves his skull at home or -- or just needs to cut something. I figured you of all people would appreciate a good knife as a gift. And besides, it was _your_ lady friend who suggested the idea.”

She tutted and rolled her eyes, flicking her hair theatrically. “Para is also lacking in that department, the poor dear.” To him, she grew a wicked smile from beneath the wide brim of her hat and coyly said, “What you need to do is get Al something he’ll _love_ , something he does to relax, to _unwind._ Perhaps something you can _both_ enjoy together?”

Dismas snorted and stopped in his steps, narrowing his eyes at the Grave Robber from over his scarf. “Having a shag on Solstice eve is a strange idea of ‘romantic’, lass.”

“ _Pshaw_ . I was referring to that poppy tobacco he smokes. Surely Jo has an idea of where you can buy some,” which suddenly seemed obvious to Dismas, and he felt his face flush annoyingly at his own lewd assumption. At his reddened cheeks, Audrey poked him playfully and laughed her mad hyena laugh to the Hamlet, and as she walked away, she called over her shoulder suggestively. “Unless of course you _want_ to shag the Occultist!”

...

“Hey Jo.”

The small woman looked up from what was probably a priceless artifact of sorts found on their last expedition, her jewelers loupe pressed firmly to her eye. She glanced at him for a brief second before returning to it, clearly focused on whatever the magnifying piece uncovered. “Dismas. Did you need something?”

Her voice was clipped and Dismas bristled at it -- she already expected that he was only here because he wanted something from her, and the worst part was that she wasn't wrong. Clearly he should come around more often, Dismas scolded himself. 

“Well, yes, actually," he faltered, unsure of how to ask tastefully, so he didn't bother. "Any chance you have some of those Immortality Stones handy?” 

“My opium?" She didn't look up, still too absorbed by her artifact. It reminded him of Paracelsus, the way she was hyper-focused on her work, and Dismas swore to the Light to take more of an interest in his fellow adventurers pursuits in their off-days. "I was planning to make some Laudanum with it later.”

Dismas sighed, knowing full well that Josephine didn't give out her narcotics easily. “Just a couple resin pills is all I need. I’ll even pay extra this time.”

She stopped at that and looked up at him, her thin black brows furrowed suspiciously and he could all but hear the accusations churning in her mind -- _Dismas_ ? Pay **_extra_ **? He tried not to get defensive, tried not to immediately downplay it or shrug it off or back out of the Antiquarian's field of cognizance entirely and go dig a hole to bury himself in elsewhere. 

“...I take it this is for your Solstice recipient?” is all she said, tucking a loose onyx strand of hair back into her head covering.

“ _Perhaps_.”

“So your recipient is Alhazred?”

Dismas huffed in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air and dropping the feigned nonchalance in exchange for a scowl. “What, did you _also_ have a say in who got who?” 

A pretty laugh, then, and she turned back to her loupe, clearly satisfied with something judging by the smile on her face. When she spoke, her voice was pointed and playful, a stark contrast from when she had originally greeted him, and the thief tried not to let that get under his skin. “Dismas, you only ever ask for my poppy stores when it’s for Alhazred.”

“Okay, yes it is," Dismas sighed in defeat. Him and his big mouth, according to Para. "Just, don’t tell him.”

“I won’t," promised Josephine, and unlike with the Plague Doctor's assurances of secrecy, Dismas believed her at her word. The two of them had a strange bond in combat and an even stranger bond outside of it, a quiet fondness between them that mostly went ignored until one of them needed the other -- which Dismas intended to change for the better. A silence settled in Josephine's study and Dismas figured that was the end of it, then made to leave empty handed, before she quickly interjected. "And _fine_ , you can have a couple of stones’ worth.”

He turned, surprised at her change of heart. “What’s your price?”

“None. Consider it an _investment_ ," she said, and Dismas was dumbfounded. Jo prized her poppies, was meticulous with harvesting her precious opium, whether for Paracelsus' medicinal purposes, Alhazred's spiritual needs, or the general Hamlet's recreational past-time. There's no way she would freely give away the fruits of her labor without a catch. Before Dismas could call her on it, she nervously added, "But are you _sure_ that’s what Alhazred wants for Solstice?”

It threw him off his current train of thought and onto that constant, worried highway of anxiety he’d been riding for a week now. “I have no idea what he wants, to be honest. What would you suggest?”

She chewed at the gold ring of jewelry splitting her bottom lip, giving Dismas her full attention now and hesitating, choosing her words as meticulously as she did anything else, until finally, "From what I know of the man, he would want something meaningful. Something from the heart.”

Dismas snorted, wondering just where these Hamlet women came up with their gift ideas. “What, like a poem?” 

Josephine chuckled at that, clearly done with offering any further help as she turned back to the artifact at her desk with a dismissive wave in Dismas' direction. “... _Something_ like that, perhaps. He’s a very sentimental man, after all.”

...

‘ _Sentimental_ ’ was not a word Dismas would use to describe himself.

He had his lucky coin, sure, and his shameful locket, of course. When he was young, he sometimes got overly attached to certain brothel girls, and recently in the early morning of sleepless nights he might occasionally write some short sonnets, but that didn’t mean Dismas was _sentimental._ If anything, he was _terrible_ with sentiments, all kinds of sentiments, and his various gifts for Alhazred’s Solstice was proof enough of that. 

Disheartened, he looked to the blank paper in front of him, pen dripping with ink as it hovered uselessly over the table. 

Dismas tried to think of the things he might want in a poem written about _him_ and chewed his lip _._ It wasn’t difficult to summon to mind all the aspects of the Occultist that he admired, from his gentility with others to his ruthlessness in battle, his well-rounded understanding of a hardly coherent world to his fluidity with pain and trauma. His sheer sophistication in a town of dirt and grime and filth, both in its structures and in its people, was like a beacon of Light for Dismas. A refreshing breath of something… passionate, something kind.

Something _compelling_.

The hand pulling him back towards life, holding Dismas as he glimpsed the beyond, the void, the very thing that Alhazred harnessed within himself. 

Those strong features that cast deep shadows over bronze skin, the harsh cut of his cheekbones that canted elegantly to his tidied beard, the regal contour of his onyx eyes that curved at the corners and seemed to notice everything. That seemed to _always_ find Dismas upon either of them returning from an expedition, first and foremost.

He shivered beneath his coat despite the warmth of the fire and felt ridiculous. The scholar was admirable, sure, but Dismas might be going a bit overboard, he told himself -- no way could he put to words the strange fixation he felt, not without perturbing Alhazred, surely. 

Humor was his best bet here, something familiar and detached, something that might make the Occultist smile but not hint at the perplexing obsession Dismas felt, lurking beneath his skin hotly and making an appearance in lonesome moments. The pen flew across the page with sudden inspiration -- a few poetic quips about Alhazred already being romantically taken by the Eldritch entity he commanded, since the scholar oft playfully referred to the pact as ‘matrimony’. 

“Til death do you part, and all,” Dismas mumbled to himself, finally feeling somewhat satisfied with his work. He was sure Al would get a kick out of it. Hopefully.

And to think, he might have otherwise confessed something he shouldn’t for the man.

...

“This is supposed to be sentimental?” 

Junia looked from the paper to Dismas in wary disbelief, then handed it back to the Highwayman who snatched it to him with a little more force than necessary; everyone seemed to be a critic in the Hamlet this past week, and Dismas was irritated. “Of course, it’s a _poem_.”

“A poem about…,” she paused, clearly for dramatic effect, and wrinkled her nose. “The _pact._ ”

Dismas shrugged, still not seeing her point -- or refusing to, rather. “It’s a glorious pact.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes beneath her headwrap, then went back to scrubbing the floor of the abbey while Dismas took a seat in the pew beside her. He had belatedly offered to help, but the woman dismissed his efforts, quoting some verse about the holy privilege of doing chores. “It’s hardly sentimental. I’m really not sure what you expect _him_ to make of this.” 

“I expect -- ” He _hoped_ , rather, but refused to say as much. “That Al will see the obvious humor and appreciate a good laugh for Solstice eve. Because if not, I’m at a complete loss.”

“Clearly,” Junia snipped in her usual way. 

Irritated, Dismas folded the paper and gently placed it in his coat pocket, then went back to glaring at the sweet, kindly Vestal, her informal abbess robe rolled up and tied at the sleeves. She had to be aware that it was _her_ fault Dismas was in this mess in the first place, after she strong-armed him into joining the Solstice swap. As such, it only made sense that she should have to be accountable for him getting out of it and asked, “Then what do _you_ think I should get him?”

“Well, he’s a scholar,” her voice strained with the effort of scouring the church’s wooden boards with the sudsy sponge.

“I’m well aware.” 

Junia wrung out the nearly black water she sopped up into one bucket, then poured more of the soaps and salts elsewhere, back and forth. Dismas was nearly exhausted just watching her thin arms strain and her gentle brow gloss with a build up of sweat. "A well-educated, if not a tad _Light_ less, gentleman."

"Yep, that's him,” Dismas belabored impatiently.

“As a once esteemed professor of the liberal arts, I’m sure he’s published a book or two in his teaching career.”

Dismas narrowed his eyes at her quizzically, unsure of what point she was trying to make; these damned women of the Hamlet were so frustratingly _cryptic_ whenever Dismas was in need of a straight answer lately. “So what, I should buy one of his books for him?”

With a curt tutt, Junia stood and stretched her back, then worked at the muscles in her wiry limbs and gave Dismas a look, as if he were being intentionally dense. “Maybe not _his_ book, but _a_ book. Something about… the Void or the literary arts or whatever it is he enjoys. I’m sure he’d appreciate it, and it might give you two something to talk about.”

"We have _plenty_ to talk about."

"Oh?” Junia huffed a breathy laugh as she lifted the pail of dirty water and hoisted it to the lower gutters of the abbey, and Dismas followed her compliantly -- despite his better judgement telling him to _leave_ and save his threadbare dignity, he was still desperate to find a gift for Al. He had come to Junia in the first place because he knew her to be rather _sentimental_ and trusted her opinion; he just could do without the degradation. “Like your affinity for stabbing or shooting things? Or your habit of drinking and gambling? Or perhaps you two have riveting conversations of your monthly brothel adventures -- " 

" _Okay_ ,” interjected Dismas, ears flushed and brows knitted in irritation. “Point taken, I'm a menace to high society and academia."

"That’s very much _not_ the point, nor is that how _he_ sees you,” Junia sounded strangely confident in that, which surprised Dismas, until she added, “Though some manners certainly wouldn't hurt in your case, the point is that maybe he just wants to… _talk_ to you."

"Hmph, ' _talk_ ',” the Highwayman deflated, unimpressed. He had wanted Junia to tell him exactly what to get the Occultist as a proper Solstice gift to confess… what? His unending admiration for the other man, or perhaps his shameful attraction, his morbid curiosity and pathetic desire for _more_ of the scholar? How could Dismas even begin to understand what gift to give Al when he didn’t even understand his own feelings? Biting his lip, Dismas wondered if perhaps that’s what Junia had been saying in a roundabout way all along, but regardless was reluctant to accept it. “I'm sure Al’s got nothing to say to the uneducated likes of _me_."

"Only one way to find out."

Dismas peered up at the Vestal suspiciously, who unrolled her abbess sleeves now that she was finished with her chores, and she turned to avoid his gaze with a tiny smile that she clearly tried to hide from him. "And just what do you know about the way he sees me, anyway?"

"Oh _Dismas_ ,” she sighed, but it wasn’t impatience that laced her tone this time. It was something… softer, something fond and endearing, as if she knew something he didn’t, and she finally turned her smile to him. “The truth is only obvious when you take the time to find it. I'm sure Alhazred can solve that riddle of yours better than I can. After all, why do you think I forced you to participate in the first place?"

…

Dismas didn’t have many possessions to speak of, despite being a common ex-brigand thief, but the ones he did have were precious to him.

Not because he was _sentimental_ , but because he was practical. 

After all, it wasn’t often that one came across a Yiddish translation of _Alice in Wonderland_ or a waterlogged handwritten version of the _Odyssey_ which he could barely read -- the parts that _were_ still legible went over his basic reading comprehension. Dismas always had trouble with words when he needed them most, never seeming to be able to find the right ones on command, and held a special admiration for those who could. As such, he treasured the few, old, worn volumes of books he had stashed away with his shameful locket and, despite his infamous big mouth, never spoke a word of them lest he tempt better thieves than him.

Now, he flipped through each one with a gentleness uncommon to him, some of the volumes old enough that he feared they might dissolve in his hands under his usual careless treatment.

He wasn’t sure what any of them were even worth. Really, Dismas didn’t know how to appraise the value of a book with a practiced eye like he could with gems and trinkets, so for all he knew, he could be hiding a secret fortune or hoarding heaps of dirt. It didn’t matter to him, though, not when each book brought with it a different memory or feeling from days long past.

By the Light, perhaps he _was_ getting sentimental in his old age. 

His hand swept across a first edition copy of _Beowulf_ , frayed at the edges but still almost completely intact, if not coated under a thick layer of dust that parted to his palm as he cleaned the cover. It was one of his nicer treasures, the pages hardly crinkled or torn despite his turning them for years under the candlelight as a brigand on the Old Road, and it surprisingly held up to the test of time.

It was precious to him, and as many times as he had read over it, surely Dismas could write a poorman’s copy of his own if only he knew how. 

Regardless, it would give him and Al something to talk about for Solstice.

…

The night before Solstice, Dismas gathered every item he had managed to scrounge up in the past few weeks -- privately shocked at the items he collected after swearing minimal funds or effort to this. 

Overtime, it became apparent just how much Alhazred meant to him, unavoidable, as much as Dismas would rather bury those thoughts in the tomb of his mind than ever confront the other man. Irritated with himself, Dismas fiddled with the gifts before placing them in a row on his desk.

First, a common, dodge-enchanted incense stick. Dismas couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at it, remembering how cheap and careless he had been at the Nomad’s wagon, instantly regretting how blaisé he had tried to act at first. Hopefully, the Occultist wouldn’t see it and outright laugh at Dismas, even if he perhaps deserved it; Dismas knew, though, that the scholar would never be so unkind as to reject a gift simply for being common and lowly, luckily for him.

Second, a gorgeous, gem-encrusted knife that nearly cost him the rest of his funds, plus required that he’d trade in his own dagger -- which as far as he was concerned, was absolutely worth it to keep the Occultist safe in close combat when Dismas wasn’t there to. Despite Audrey laughing at the concept, Dismas could think of nothing better to provide the other man than a backup means of defense, though he was nervous for Al’s opinion on the matter. 

After that was a heap of quality opium, hopefully something they could enjoy _together,_ as Audrey had insisted, but was fine if not. After all, it would make a terrible gift if _required_ to be done with Dismas, despite how much Dismas cherished the quality time it gave him with the Occultist, walls down and surprisingly relaxed for once in his life. 

Then came -- Dismas was embarrassed to recall -- his rather humorous poem about their pact which he was confident Al would enjoy regardless of it being a front for any genuine sentimental value. The scholar had a surprising sense of humor and quick wit, which was one of the first things that Dismas had been drawn to. On top of that, Al was certainly keen enough to see right through the veneer of humor, right to Dismas’ true intent as Al had always managed to do when it came to the Highwayman.

Lastly, though perhaps most _importantly_ to Dismas, came the book: it meant the most to him and as such, was the item he doubted most. Surely Alhazred had already read _Beowulf_? It was probably child’s play compared to what Al was accustomed to. Would he even like it?

Whatever. 

There was no good way to tell the professor of the arts how he felt, so Dismas cursed himself for his cowardice and grabbed the items, not bothering with wrapping them.

They would just turn out to be a mess if he tried regardless, like everything else.

…

The night of Solstice eve was here. Dismas was hyper aware of it, aware of the nod he received from Para, the laugh from Audrey, the wink from Jo, and the smile from Junia -- all encouraging in their own ways, and all inadvertently spiking his anxiety further.

Uncharacteristically embarrassed, Dismas opted to sneak into the athenaeum where he knew the Occultist liked to spend his time and drop off the gifts there, then make a quick exit.

That had been the plan, anyway.

Instead, Dismas took his sweet time, trying to arrange the gifts in a way Audrey or Margaret might have -- charming, thoughtful, _appealing_. As if to make up for the fact that Dismas wasn’t any of those things, nor were his gifts. It was a moot point, though, because as he stood there, fretting over the arrangement of the items, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Dismas?”

The Highwayman whipped around and mentally cursed himself for not paying attention.

Alhazred stood in the doorway of the small vestibule, the one dedicated to his projects within the athenaeum. Dismas knew it well, as they liked to spend their mutual off days within the study, rare as those were, with Dismas asking an endless stream of questions that he never imagined getting answers to, yet somehow Alhazred always knew. And when he didn’t, then Dismas got to see the beautiful light of curiosity light up Al’s dark eyes, sparkling with a thirst for knowledge. 

After Dismas had first surprised him with an unexpected visit, Al had gotten Dismas his own luxurious if not slightly moth-eaten chair to sit with him, burning the lamplights well into the night together. By now, they had spent the better half of a year scorching lamplight together. 

In a panic, Dismas tried to hide the gifts behind his back, futility so. Al was too perceptive for a clumsy sleight of hand trick, but still he _tried_.

“Hey.”

Al walked into the room, somehow effortlessly managing to tune the air tighter in Dismas’ lungs, bringing an elegance to the atmosphere that only the Occultist could manage to do so naturally. He purposefully left the door open, as if allowing Dismas the chance to escape -- which the thief very nearly considered doing; he hadn’t wanted to be around, hadn’t wanted to be sober, to be _conscious_ if at all possible, when Al eventually found the gifts. 

But here they were.

The other man kept a polite distance, as if knowing intuitively just how on edge Dismas was, and Dismas wasn’t sure if he appreciated that or not. He simultaneously wanted Al closer and on the other side of the Hamlet. 

“It’s rather late for a visit,” Al’s moustache twitched with a knowing smile, and Dismas knew he was being teased -- which he was grateful for.

 _Teasing_ , he could handle. Everything else swirling within him, though, a confusing mess of half-truths and self-lies, all pointing towards the man standing before him, that was a can of worms that he wasn’t yet ready to open. So instead, Dismas cocked his head, plastered on his best shit-eating grin possible past the gnawing stress, and mocked, “Not happy to see me, professor?” 

The Occultist finally closed the door with an echoing _click_ and drew forward at that, just slightly, just enough for Dismas to hear his dark chuckle and summon goosebumps to his skin. Yet again, the athenaeum’s alcove felt too small, yet too large all the same.

“I certainly didn’t say _that_. Especially not after you seemed to avoid me these past weeks,” Al’s eye’s flashed up to his, intense, overwhelming. “I wonder why that is, Dismas.”

Dismas gulped at the use of his name, at the playful lilt in Alhazred’s voice, at how helpless Dismas always felt around him. They were both the shortest men on the roster, with Al being just a few precious inches taller than the thief, yet somehow the Occultist always managed to seem… _looming_ , almost. Unerring. Infallible in the best of ways, but still compliant to Dismas’ ever-changing whims. He knew when to be flexible and playful, yet also knew when to be a pillar of a man for both the team and for the Highwayman who thought himself forever anchorless until recently.

Still, he just shrugged, kept up the charade of nonchalance for as long as he could. “Been busy.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Al smiled. His eyes moved meaningfully to the items hidden behind Dismas’ back, _poorly_ hidden if that growing grin was anything to judge by, and Dismas dipped his blush behind his scarf. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to face the tangles of his own heart, and as the silence stretched on, Al seemed to pick up on that. Ever perceptive, ever accommodating and ever all the things Dismas didn’t deserve, Al took a step backwards, away from Dismas and towards the door. “Though I can leave, if you need -- ”

“No…!” interrupted Dismas, voice harsh in his haste to stop the other man. He cleared his throat, painfully loud in the patient quiet that followed, then softer, he simply shrugged and said, “I got you something, is all. A few… somethings.” 

Al seemed surprised at Dismas’ admittance -- nearly as surprised as _Dismas_ was by it.

“I see,” came the measured response and understanding smile. Dismas both hated and _loved_ the way it seemed to pierce him entirely, tear him apart at the mismatched, patchwork seams and stitch him back together again in all the right ways. Al always had a knack for making Dismas feel… _better_ than he was, and the gesture of this scholar, this monolith of a being _bowing_ slightly to him -- to _him_! -- ached something raw and vulnerable in Dismas. “I’m honored, Dismas.”

“Yeah, well,” Dismas huffed out, nose and cheeks still buried to hide their flush as he moved his hands from behind his back, gifts now out in the open. “Don’t be ‘til you see ‘em.”

He flinched at Alhazred’s slow advance, as if approaching a cornered animal, and again at the demure hand reaching out to pluck the first item Dismas had settled on for the other man -- the common incense stick from the Nomad’s wagon.

The Occultist gave a thoughtful hum as he turned it over, a small smile crinkling his eyes as he looked up at Dismas. “So _this_ is why Callista was sold out of her incense wares the other day. I had wondered who else might buy an item meant for the occult.” Dismas furrowed his brow at that; he hadn’t meant to buy the last of the Nomad woman’s incense and felt suddenly foolish, though Al tried to thank him regardless before Dismas rudely cut him off.

“It’s nothing,” Dismas waved, strangely irritated with himself. “It was cheap and common. An insignificant gift, really.”

“It’s a cost-effective way of keeping me safe on expeditions, and for that, I thank you, Dismas,” Al set the incense aside, somehow knowing exactly what Dismas needed to hear to keep going -- to keep from running away and falling asleep in a gutter somewhere to forget just how splayed open he felt for the Occultist in the tiny space. 

A moment later, Al plucked the second item of Dismas’ failures, the bejeweled knife that he would have no use for, surely. Still, Alhazred took a great interest in unsheathing it, eyeing it from hilt to blade as if it were a priceless artifact and not something Dismas had drafted just a week ago. Perplexingly, Dismas felt as if _he_ were the one under such attentive scrutiny and not the knife, and he forced himself not to fidget while Al took his sweet time turning the fresh blade in his hands. “It’s stunning, and practical. Clearly made with proficient craftsmanship. Deadly, yet still delicate in my hands.”

He weighed the knife with a skilled hand, and when he finally sheathed it, Dismas took a breath and shrugged, voice defiant. “It’s a moot object compared to your dark magic or Eldritch companion. You might be better off selling it.”

Per usual, Al just smiled patiently and shook his head, equally defiant as Dismas knew him to be, secretly _loved_ him to be. There weren’t many in Dismas’ life who could put up with his insolent nature and deliver it back in full, but the Occultist had a particular knack for it. “Sorry to disappoint you, but my pact and abyssal powers can only do so much in close quarters. You say this remarkable knife is a moot object, but it is yet another means of defending myself. Does my safety matter that much to you?”

Dismas glared at him over the fringe of his scarf, not enjoying that question one bit despite its teasing tone as he felt something strangely protective clench at his chest. “You _know_ it does.”

“You see, _compassion_ isn’t something my pact is capable of, either, Dismas,” Al spoke in soothing tones, and seemed to draw even closer as he picked up the small vial of Josephine’s opium, airtight and surprisingly ornate compared to what she normally packaged it in for Dismas. “ _Ah_ , this looks familiar.”

“It’s just poppy,” Dismas was quick to interject. “It’s been a while since we’ve smoked together is all -- not that you need to do it with _me_ , if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” said Al, firmly shutting that idea down, and Dismas hoped the selfish relief he felt didn’t show on his face. Smoking was culturally important to Alhazred, he’d learned, and the times the Occultist shared that with Dismas… they were meaningful. To them _both_ , it seemed. “This is certainly thoughtful, but opium is only as good as the company you share it with. How did you manage to acquire any? Josephine has been particularly guarded of her product now.”

He shrugged in response beneath his cowl, embarrassed. “Said they were for you.”

Alhazred laughed fully now, as if Dismas had told him some hilarious joke, and the sound of it shot through the Highwayman’s bones pleasantly, filling him with a contented feeling he would sooner drown in than whiskey or wine. “You must have won her over somehow.”

A familiar fondness settled between them, blunting Dismas’ anxiety, until Al reached for the next gift and carefully unfolded it --

_His poem._

“ _Wait_ ,” Dismas insisted, shocked when the Occultist listened to him, though the other man had never been anything but respectful towards Dismas’ wishes in the past, few that they were. Still, the Highwayman stared at the paper in Al’s tanned hands, suddenly embarrassed, as if the poem were something salacious or something too personal, despite its contents being characteristically ridiculous, frivolous, _childish_ \-- “It’s not… It’s not my best work.”

“You’ve never allowed me to read your poetry before, Dismas,” smiled Alhazred, eyes alight with something akin to wonder. “I would be considered a very lucky man indeed if I may read it now.”

Dismas hissed a breath through his teeth, torn, but eventually nodded and watched as the scholar, so wise with his words, so well-practiced and poetic in everything he did, read through Dismas’ shitty poetry. Watched as Al’s eyes crinkled at the edges, watched as they flicked up to Dismas, still staring nervously, watched as he laughed again and filled Dismas with that heady oblivion once more. 

“You certainly have talent,” Al laughed, “Though I doubt the _pact_ would be as amused.”

Slowly, Dismas began to unwind, realizing that perhaps he had been worried for nothing after all; Al clearly appreciated everything Dismas had managed to scrounge up for him so far, common or otherwise, and slowly the excitement over the last gift began to swell within him.

 _Beowulf_ ; his favorite book. 

Alhazred looked pensive when he finally flipped the book over and read the cover, then ran a delicate hand over the spine of it. Dismas shivered as if it were his own spine, then waited patiently, as patiently as he could in the moment, refusing to let himself undercut _this_ particular gift as he had with every other. When Alhazred finally broke the silence, he did so with a soft, quiet voice, only heard in the small room with their proximity, and with glimmering onyx eyes that looked to him with tenderness.

“This happened to be my favorite book when I was young,” he said with a… strange, seemingly broken voice, that Dismas wanted to grasp the pieces of and put back together.

“It’s mine, too.”

When Al finally put it down on the table behind them, he did it gently, as if the weathered book were made of precious glass, and it left Dismas with his hands open and wanting, empty and awkward, lost, then --

 _Found_.

The Occultist turned back to him, then held Dismas’ hands in place with that same delicate touch that he had spared for the _Beowulf_ book and his tan features were just as contemplative, just as wistful and attentive as they were when they examined the precious item. Those dark eyes scanned Dismas’ face with a question that Dismas was scared to interpret, terrified of answering incorrectly, so he shifted, deflected, averted his gaze as he was prone to do.

“That’s all the gifts I’ve got,” he whispered meekly, far more fragile than he had ever felt in his life. He trusted Alhazred, trusted the man to keep him from falling apart in his hands.

“And they were wonderful. I’ll treasure each and every one,” Al promised and Dismas _believed_ him. Believed that he had made a difference, believed that he had gotten his frustrating tangle of wants and needs and desperations across that he himself didn’t understand until the moment Al cradled his hands. “But this -- ” He ran his thumbs against Dismas’ sharp wrist bones, overwhelming him, stuttering his breath and his pulse alike. “ _This_ is my favorite gift, Dismas. Right here.”

Dismas looked at their hands together, at the contrast of scars and supple flesh, of calluses and smooth fingertips teasing goosebumps to Dismas’ skin, stealing his breath, stealing his _mind_. It represented the two of them perfectly -- hardened and refined. 

Flawed, bloodstained, lower class and _worse_ compared to Al’s refined elegance. 

And still, he held Dismas. The realization took his breath away.

“It’s _you_ , Dismas,” the Occultist breathed with an astounded laugh. “You’ve been a gift to me all these months.”

“ _Oh_.”

His hands shook from the revelation and he might have been adrift if not for the anchor of the Occultist, those powerful, pristine hands moving up his forearms, up his biceps and shoulders, gently dragging his scarf down and leaving Dismas speechless. Speechless, but with striking clarity. The fog of his needs were lifted, the web of his neglected emotions unraveled, and Dismas knew _exactly_ what he wanted. 

Before he could manage to undercut _himself_ the way he had with every other gift, the way he had for months Dismas steeled himself, indulged in Al's touch, stood on his tippy toes --

\-- then pressed his lips to Alhazred's.

The other man didn't freeze like Dismas had expected, didn't yank away like he'd feared, merely sunk into their closeness with an instinctive acclimation, as if this were commonplace. Something established, or at the very least, something mutually sought after. It made Dismas shiver, that they could have been doing this for months now, that Al watched him drink and gamble and whore for others and still accepted him into his arms as if Dismas were something worthy like the Occultist was.

Al's hands moved slowly, gently, as if still giving Dismas the opportunity to flee if need be. No. _No,_ no way could Dismas unwind himself from this man now after so thoroughly tangling them together, unintentionally at first, but soon nearly obsessive in his desire to be around the resplendent scholar. 

The way those hands moved from Dismas’ neckerchief to his skin, palms cupping the cut of Dismas’ jaw, fingers threading through the short hair at the back of his neck -- he _moaned,_ embarrassingly so, the moment those fingers touched his burning skin. Blessedly, Al didn’t laugh, didn’t pull away, didn’t do anything to make Dismas feel foolish for being so entirely consumed by him. He merely tilted Dismas’ head, just slightly, just enough to deepen the kiss to Dismas’ very soul, it seemed. 

It was strange, this kiss. Different than any Dismas had shared before, passion incarnate. Yearning and acceptance, somehow. Simultaneously enough and very much _not_.

Dismas, now shameless and fearless and _emboldened_ by those warm hands tracing love at his skin, he felt the overwhelming desire to be closer to the other man, to chase this feeling for as long as Al would let him. He moved his empty hands to Al’s winter robes, just more regal finery contrasting his own rugged, threadbare apparel, and was careful as he guided Al backwards.

Alhazred went willingly where Dismas pressed him, not a single ounce of resistance against his hands, and Dismas was overcome by the trust Al had for him. For the _Highwayman_ , for the Hamlet’s dirty rat, for the killer and conman and worse. 

But the Occultist made him feel as if he were more than those terrible truths.

He made Dismas feel _worthy_.

Eventually, Dismas managed to guide Al to the chair he had bought for the ex-brigand, large and plush and surely able to accommodate them both; Dismas was willing to find out.

They didn’t break apart as they fell into it, too far gone to the heady ardor that now encompassed them both, all measures of decorum gone to the raw _passion_ . It was passionate in a way Dismas had never experienced before -- not sexually so, or at least not _just_ sexually. His spirit, something Dismas never gave a second thought to most days, something he didn’t even believe in other days, felt full to the point of _bursting_ , pieced together like a broken vase finally finding its missing piece.

When they parted for air, they were breathless. Dismas felt raw, pleasantly so, and more so he felt _held_. The bristles of Al’s facial hair tickled his cheek and he smiled contently, closing his eyes to anything that wasn’t Al and shivered when he felt those hands moving to his coat, Al’s long fingers slipping under the fur of his collar, then with agonizing patience, slid it off of him entirely.

It was one less layer between them, and already Dismas felt so exposed. He was perched in Alhazred’s lap, cradled in that soft warmth, the Occultist’s hands spreading and heading up and down his spine as he stroked it with that same tender care as he had with the book.

“Gods, _Al_ ,” Dismas groaned. 

Anyone else, and Dismas would have been ready to be bent over the vestibule’s desk by now, but the scholar was a different sort, the kind to unravel Dismas entirely, giving every inch of him the attention Dismas had never been given before. Never _deserved_ before, but Al gave that and more, so freely to him. 

Those tortuous, loving hands meticulously laced each finger in the notches of Dismas’ spine over the shirt, forcing Dismas to arch his back from the sensations of being undone.

For fuck’s sake, if his body and soul was in this much ecstasy with his clothes _on_ , Dismas was overwhelmed at the thought of getting their clothes _off_ and gave his own hands free reign, until -- He swallowed, suddenly nervous, and Alhazred seemed to immediately notice the shift in his mood by his questioning look. Really, Dismas was the kind of street tramp who would sooner get his stress relief in a back alley somewhere, uncaring of who or why or how it had happened, or whether or not he would ever see the person again.

Al was different, though, and the thought nearly shamed Dismas.

“Do you want to stop?” Alhazred murmured softly, sweetly, and Dismas immediately shook his head.

“I…” Dismas swallowed his nerves and remembered who he was here with, who had just enflamed his soul with tender affection Dismas had never believed was possible for the likes of him. Al hadn’t rejected him this far into things, and Dismas had to believe he wouldn’t now. “I want to touch you.”

The chuckle he received in response wasn’t rude or cruel, but impossibly warm and inviting, and Dismas was surprised when one of Al’s hands found his, pulled it close, then after a brief moment’s pause, slipped it beneath the silks and wools of Al’s clothing. 

Dismas groaned, and he could feel when Alhazred moaned as well, a deep noise from within his chest that filled the Highwayman’s senses with carnal intimacy. His skin was molten bronze beneath Dismas’ hand, nearly scalding to the touch, and between each deep breath Al took, Dismas could feel the mutual pounding of his head, of Al’s heart, at his palm. They stayed like that for a long while, just feeling and being _felt_ , until Dismas grew impatient once more and leaned down to kiss the scholar. 

Consumed, Dismas allowed his hand to roam Al’s chest while they kissed, his body slight beneath the robes and not unlike his own, but so unbelievably _responsive_ to him. 

_Gods_ , Dismas wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Not after months of wanting.

When they were both thoroughly unwound within each other, clothes disheveled and parted to one another, Dismas finally pulled away again, lips tingling from Al’s facial hair, tongue tasting of Al, face and bare chest flushed. He felt on display for the other man, lost to Al’s gentle whim, and he was in awe at Al’s willpower. Really, Dismas should have expected as much from a half-immortal being with a couple hundred years of experience under his belt, but Light be damned, Dismas had no such willpower.

“Would it be unromantic to shag on Solstice eve?” Dismas heard himself say with a flush -- it was the exact kind of vulgarity he should expect from himself while with someone else, but it felt… too _base_ with Alhazred.

Still, Al just laughed in that soul-filling way of his and lifted a hand to Dismas’ sweaty forehead, wiping at the gloss of need that gathered there, that gathered all over his body despite the chill of the vestibule. His body was alive with want, heart thrumming with need, erection pulsing with Alhazred so close, and Dismas tried not to be embarrassed at the state he was in.

It was the damned Occultist’s fault anyway, he mused.

“We don’t need to rush things, Dismas. We have as long as you want,” Al spoke, letting his fingertips slide down to Dismas’ lips. 

And Dismas, ever the little shit, smirked and ran his tongue against those supple pads suggestively, high on the salty taste of them, drunk on the blaze of fondness lifting Alhazred’s smile and darkening his eyes as he allowed Dismas to lick and suck in a very _vulgar_ way.

Perhaps Al was still more human instead of immortal than Dismas had first assumed. 

When Dismas finally released Al’s fingers with a salacious _pop,_ the Occultist chuckled and slowly slid his fingers down Dismas’ chest, leaving a wet trail against his exposed skin, then paused before he got to Dismas’ belt. Al seemed to consider something and pulled away to reach into his own opened robes, far more tousled than Dismas had ever seen them, he thought with a sense of pride, and eventually pulled out a small pouch which he handed to Dismas. 

“What’s this?”

“From Audrey,” answered Al, eyes curious. “It’s your Solstice gift apparently. She asked me to give it to you once you had delivered yours.”

Dismas huffed, a mix of amusement and irritation narrowing his eyes as he took the bag and said, “So much for our recipients being a surprise…” But he quickly cut himself off when he opened the twine and peered inside. Within the pouch was a small vial containing a clear liquid, and Dismas flushed, recognizing what it was instantly. Curled around it was a short note, and when he read it, he cursed the blasted woman.

“ _One of us has to be the romantic one. Enjoy your Solstice ;)_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Me at the start of this: Meh, this isn’t really my ship, Reymas for life  
> Me after writing 10,000 words of DismAl: Wow, I see the appeal.


End file.
